Orange and Black
by YouKnowTheType
Summary: Claw is a new naive vigilante who aspires to be just like The Batman and is increasingly frustrated when she can't seem to live up to his reputation. When a friend is murdered by a vicious psychopath, Claw finds out exactly what it takes to be just like The Batman: cunning, a lack of self preservation, and maybe a bit of savagery. / OC slight AU mixing comic&movie-verse timelines
1. Wednesday: Window Shopping

I can't find a sidekick OC story that makes me happy, so my only option is to write my own.

This is an action/thriller/horror story taking heavy influences from comics and novels.

Using creative liberties with timelines and changing them to suit my own needs.

Will be dealing with multiple villains at once, like with the Arkham video games. See my author page for more details.

**Orange and Black****  
><strong>**Chapter One**

_Experience is a brutal teacher, but God, do you learn. -C.S. Lewis_

Gotham City was a labyrinth surrounded by cold concrete, steel, and bright neon signs. The streets were bathed in the white fog of city lights refracting off of each individual raindrop which clouded the stormy midnight sky overhead like a classic horror film. The alleyways and sewer gutters were frosted with grime and disease. It was beautiful and disgusting, as was the charm.

Typical urban sounds resounded off buildings into foreboding alleys and barely softening at the pitch rooftops, rumored to be home to a giant far below in the rat's maze, a car backfired then a slight but unmuffled chime touched keen ears. Few moments passed before the musical tinkling of glass morphed into a not unfamiliar sound: a burglar alarm. Some kind of handgun bit back at the insistent screaming of the anti-theft system and laid out a red carpet for anyone foolish enough to partake in the dangerous game. From a few blocks away, thin white slits narrowed at the audacity. _On my way, jack-off._

High up on the walls of a crumbling gothic cathedral church sat a shadow among the significantly larger mounted gargoyles, offsetting the symmetry of the building. A young fool's teeth shined behind a smirk as a taxi sped by the church, its brights breaking the guise of the shadows and revealing the anomaly to have disappeared.

Underneath the glare of the street lights, a sense of adrenaline that could only come from a pull on the trigger of a gun washed over LeBlanc. He needed the cash the jewels would pawn for no question but considering his location – Hartfelt's Jewelry in the Diamond District – an argument could be made that he was thrill seeking. He was feeling more ballsy than ever and that pinch in his chest he got when the alarm went off was better than speed.

A powerful snap of a heavy fabric like a flag in the wind alerted him to the above attack and he turned to intercept but LeBlanc was much too slow. Orange boots crashed onto his broad shoulders and sent both he and his assailant to the ground in a collective heap. His gun, a Zoraki 914, fired as it struck the ground hard then clattered away. LeBlanc didn't feel his head hit the ground the first time until it had bounced up then slapped the asphalt again. An unevenly edged yellow cape fluttered down after them, blanketing LeBlanc's lower body. In his final moments of consciousness, the crook's eyes locked onto the figure crouching over his chest.

From LeBlanc's position on his back with a concussion blackening his vision, he could vaguely make out the body of a woman clad in the colors like wild fire. Stringy dark hair slick with rain curtained around her face and tickled his nose while shadows cast from the street lamps above laced her face, exaggerating every feature into a horrible maw.

With a grunt the thief's head fell back against the ground, electing a scoff of frustration from the vigilante. She rose from her crouch and stepped off the criminal, glass crushing beneath her bright boots. Every time, every _damn_ time, she went out doing what she pretentiously referred to as "ass-kicking", criminals always thought she was some new lacky sidekick of the Batman. What was worse was that they passed out before she could properly introduce herself.

Snatching up the burglar's half empty bag, she examined the contents before upturning the bag. The sound of expensive jewelry scuffing on the glass littered floor inside the broken display window skittered into her ears.

While she had no social interests with the criminals of Gotham's underbelly, she knew the only way to earn respect in the city was through fear. Cops, the mob, murderers, , The Batman – they were all the same in that respect: gaining control through fear. Call her impatient, but six months of working her ass off and all she had to her reputation was one little one square inch report on page eight of _The Gotham Times_ last week, where the writer had called her "the nameless sidekick." There wasn't even a photograph to accompany the shoddy and anonymous eye-witness report.

It was all complete bullshit. She scowled, pulling plastic handcuffs from her knapsack. Using the toes of her bright orange boots to kick the man onto his front, she bent over and applied the restraints.

From above, a shadow fell across the brightly clad woman. Wings flapping sounded close-by, yet nearly inaudible under the siren call of the alarm system. She looked up to the ledge she had moments before leaped off. Glistening wet with the rain and black against the blackened sky, a monstrous winged beast hunched forward, paused at the building's ledge and cocked its head.

It didn't take deductive reasoning to tell it was observing her and she glared back, reproachful. Remnants of streetlight glanced across the gargoyle's back and across its massive shoulders, down its craned, cabled neck, across its skull, striking a triangle at one pointed bat's ear. It rose to stand, the wings now a fluttering cape wrapped tight around the body of a man.

"Gonna take all the credit again?" She shouted up at the cloaked figure, not caring her words were probably blocked out by the combination of the alarm and the bucketfuls of rain. No response. Without a sound, nor second glance, the shadow took a running start before leaping from the rooftop, cape spread out like wings as he glided through the sky. The shadow faded into the steamy fog. Then it was gone.

The white slits in her domino mask narrowed dangerously, "Not this time."

Snatching tape and a piece of pre-printed paper from her bag, she returned her attention to the passed out thug on the ground. After getting him set up all nice and pretty in the display and smacking the tape tight to his shirt, she sprinted to the nearest alley at the sound of police sirens. In this city, she wouldn't put it past them to try and arrest her if she tried to stick around.

The crook's head hung back on his relaxed neck while his body lay crumpled in the display window, the paper on his abdomen crackled as the wind blew. The note was plain white with three simple words on it:

_You're welcome,__  
><em>_Claw_

**\~/**

End Chapter One

**Credit to Frank Miller who was a direct influence on this entire chapter.**


	2. Thursday: Anatomy of an Automechanic

**One day until my birthday! I'm bloody excited so I'm in a bit of a writing mood! I hope I've got you hooked!**

**A few post-type warnings:**

**Firstly, there's a dark scene in this chapter and I wish I could leave it out because typing it made me cry, but it had to be done.**

**Secondly, I do a small description of my OC in the early portion of this chapter. Just an FYI if you wanted to skip it for whatever reason! I understand, but if you DO want to see my OC, then check out my profile for a link to my deviantart account!**

**This story is dedicated to my friend Grace, for she looks almost exactly like my OC!**

_What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight; it's the size of the fight in the dog. -Dwight Eisenhower_

**Orange and Black  
><strong>**Chapter Two**

Quick paced heavy footfalls masked by a light drizzle alerted the ears of a scruffy elder gent, who looked up from his dirty burn barrel to see an ominous shadow slinking along the ancient brick wall, approaching him. Heart beat quickening and blood galloping through his veins, the Homeless American covered himself from the imminent assault. A stroke of bravery and perhaps what little pride remained in his body forced the gent to look to his attacker. He refused to leave this life as a coward.

Growing steadily closer, a silhouetted figure illuminated by red and blue lights was sprinting down the alley. Now that the hobo looked, he could help but notice how small the thing was compared to the massive shadow it had cast on the brick barriers.

It took only moments, but the figure flashed passed the gent with only a parting glance in his direction. He wasn't going to die, he realized and a wave of relief and maybe some boozy nausea washed over him. In that short yet somehow infinitesimal second when what he noticed now was a girl crossed his path and locked eyes with him, her appearance burned itself into his memory forever.

Average height and athletically built, the girl was gorgeous. Long wavy impossibly red hair flew behind her, exposing her pretty face and full lips. Shadows aiding her serrated domino mask morphed her eyes to emulate white spotlights on a pitch black night.

Her costume was hard to miss; flashy and brightly colored was a red midriff jersey T with orange stripes on the grey sleeves to match the orange of her combat boots. A simple grey-black skirt and a bright yellow cape, cut unevenly at the end, which covered a small black knapsack, completed her ensemble.

The dirt-friendly hobo was speechless after she passed, a small gust following her departure, returning her attention to the matter at hand. He watched her feet leave the ground and instead took three large stomps along the wall before leaping onto a large green garbage bin, take two more steps and her pale fingers latched onto the ladder of a time weary fire escape and yanked up a lithe frame. A few seconds of speeding up the creaking metal stairs, the girl disappeared into the midnight sky.

Not the craziest thing he'd seen in his years, but no doubt he would never forget the encounter.

**\~~/**

The fading sun illuminated the fading grey concrete of an old Jump City Food Lion parking lot in wonderful oranges, reds, and yellows likened to the fallen leaves which layered the ground and crunched under the footsteps of everyone in the lot. The air was alive with the sounds of last minute shoppers and nightlife blaring from across the street.

Yet, here was seventeen year-old Taylor not only picking up last minute "travel groceries," but _babysitting_ of all things. If she had it her way, Taylor would be bathed in neon lights, surrounded by her closest friends on her last night before a week-long vacation.

As fate would have its way over her own, Taylor was clutching the hand of her three year old sister, Emily. Trudging her way across the busied lot, Taylor's subconscious suddenly recognized this moment, like some sort of sickening déjà vu.

She wanted so desperately to move, to get away, and go anywhere other than where she was walking that moment. Her body refused to respond, as if Taylor's now conscious panic were watching a first person horror movie it had seen many times before; warning the stupid girl that the monster was about to get her, that she should drop her grocery bags, kick off her unorthodox heels, and run as fast as she could.

But, like any horror film, the girl could never hear your shouts of warning and instead continued on, oblivious to the terror she which was about to unfold and damage her forever.

"Sissy! Sissy! Wait 'till we see Mommy! I'm gonna tell her-OH! Sissy!" Emily skipped along, ecstatic about the simplest things of life, loving the excitement of the busy shoppers and huge hummers and trucks around her.

"_What_?" Dream Taylor snapped with an aggravated glare. The subconscious Taylor's heart shattered into tiny pieces and fell away into an abyss when she looked upon the three year-old's face, now scrunched up in preparation for tears.

Dream Taylor scowled, "_Geez_, Em, you're _so sensitive! _All you do is freaking cry _all the time_! Could you shut up for a few minutes!"

That did it; Emily's eye sprouted tears and she began to sob, face fading to red. Subconscious Taylor screamed at her dream-self to shut up, begged her to pick up the child and carry her back to car with apologizes and shower the little girl with the love and affection she so deserved.

Instead, Dream Taylor sighed angrily, yanking the little one along with her and her bags. Subconscious Taylor was pleading with her dream-self now, _please, please, please, get Emily out of here!_

Dream Taylor shoved little Emily towards the car and popped the trunk, turning away from the younger one for only a second. Just one everlasting significant second that eternally changed the lives of six people, four of them innocent of the crime, yet would pay a horrible price for the inequity of two distracted individuals.

Subconscious Taylor screamed, having no words left, no sensible thoughts. Dream Taylor suddenly seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation as she looked back to Emily, to realize she was no longer present.

"Emily?" She called, turning around to see Emily's bright red shirt in the middle of the road, the little one's crying eyes turned around to meet her awful sister's. The slightest flicker of the eye alerted Taylor to the SUV.

The grocery bags crashed to the concrete, time seemed to pass by frame for frame yet I could never have been slow enough, and everything in the world went silent to Taylor's ears. Nothing registered in Taylor's brain other than what she was seeing; the pointless thing she'd caused. Even if she couldn't hear it, Taylor knew a scream of her sister's name escaped her mouth, one of those blood-curdling ones that seemed so overacted in films.

But this was all too real.

_Scrrrreeeeeeeecccchhhh!_

_WHAM!_

A flash of light danced behind her eyelids, shocking the red-head out of her horrible REM cycle and, accompanied by a yelp, a sense of falling warned her of the floor, which quickly became acquainted with her nose. Tangled in her bed sheets, Taylor's choked on a sob.

"Wake up, you lazy-," the preppy valley-girl's voice faltered, "Oh my God, Taylor, what's wrong?"

Everything, everything was wrong in a world where Taylor lived and Emily was… A force that wasn't her own pulled Taylor up from her face down position on the floor to lean against her roommate, now sitting next to the red-head on the floor.

"Taylor?"

"Noth-" She choked again, wanting to say there was nothing wrong no matter how pointless it would have been, but Taylor couldn't do it. She couldn't force herself to call Emily, little baby Emily, nothing. She simply couldn't do it.

"Was it a nightmare? Talk to me, Tay, please!" Taylor could only just barely make out her friend's frightened voice and respond with a heavy nod, burying her face in the girl's bare shoulder.

"Emily," Taylor finally managed to sob out, speaking directly to herself, "Always Emily."

Taylor's roommate cradled her friend, rocking back and forth like a mother should her child, holding the red-head close, for she knew all about Emily and the nighttime horrors her long time friend, Taylor, had faced ever since.

"_I killed her, Maggie,_" Taylor whispered, crying into the crook of the girl's neck, "_I killed her…she's dead, she's dead, she's dead and it's entirely my fault. I couldn't stop it!_"

"Shh, shhh," Maggie squeezed her red-head friend, "It's okay, Tay, there was nothing you could do-"

"Shut up!" Taylor rasped, "You don't get it! I shouted at her! I called her annoying! I did it! She'd have been fine if I'd just…just…"

"I know, Tay…," Maggie held back her own salty tears, "I know."

**\~~/**

"I'm okay, Mags."

Taylor's voice abruptly interrupted the silence between them and caught Maggie off-guard.

"You sure?" the blond asked, unsure. The two roommate had never been "best-friend" close, dispite this fact though, Taylor had wept into Maggie's shoulder for close to fourty-five minutes.

"Ye-up," the red-head slurred, as if she'd changed her mind as of wither to say "Yup" or "Yeah" mid-speaking. Grumbling curses under her breath, Taylor Riot yanked her body away from Maggie's warm comforting embrace onto her feet and stumbled back, nearly tripping over her Captain America comforter. Kicking the infernal blanket out of the way, Taylor wobbled her way towards the bedroom door.

A slight sigh preceded the valley-girl pulling our young protagonist's arm over her tanned shoulder and helping her roommate to the bathroom, "Where would you be without me?"

"Love you, Mags," the exhausted red-head offered a sorry smile.

Maggie Brown, the tall blonde of the pair, returned a small smile, "Whatever."

After dropping Taylor off at the bathroom, making it a point to be concerned for her roomate's emotional well being, Maggie hesitantly continued down the dorm hallway towards the stairs, scavenging for food with more furosity than a lioness. In the dark corners of her thoughts, Taylor somehow knew that no matter how caring Maggie was or how willing she was to comfort Taylor, the blonde was relieved to be out of the uncomfortable situation. In fact, so was the red-head.

Taylor closed the door, breathed out, and then fell back against the wooden slab, wincing at the stab of pain from her left ribs.

"Ugh," she growled, her body jerking away from the door. She looked to the mirror, noticing her wet face and swollen eyes. Pulling the edge of her black long-sleeved shirt up to her breasts, Taylor saw the splotches of red peaking through thin Ace-bandages.

_Fan-flipping-tastic._

Shaking fingers peeled the bandage away with great care, revealing a nasty scrape. The outermost epidermal layers protecting Taylor's left rib cage were missing, as if scooped away by a concrete spoon.

O_r perhaps_ _a slippery rooftop_, came a bitter thought.

The grotesque area was dotted with dried blood and the area surrounding, which had taken the least of the fall, was rubbed raw to a bright pink color. The very center of the wound, which spread from just beneath the bra area of the left ribs to the bottom rows of the left ribcage and the least injured pieces stretched towards her hip, was caked in a layer of dried blood which had pooled and dried overnight.

_It's decided then, no bikinis until this thing clears up._ She mentally joked with herself, knowing that if she didn't laugh, she'd most likely cry. Along her arms, back, and shoulders were several disgusting bruises, some old, others fresh from crusades the night before. Some bruises made themselves known from her knees as well, but they were few and far between, easily explained away by yesterday's football game.

Sighing, Taylor's brown eyes lowered to the cabinet beneath the porcelain sink and pulled out the plastic bag containing all her toiletries and got to work. After a long well earned shower to calm her screaming muscles and injuries, both mental and physical, she primped herself to an acceptable state (covering any small scrapes and bruises on her face and neck). Returning her effects to the cabinet, Taylor left the messy bathroom, much to the thanks of a freshman doing the "potty dance" outside.

"All your's, Freshy," she teased half-heartedly, as the underclassmen rushed into the bathroom, slamming it shut.

Taylor almost smirked, her mood greatly altered for the better now that she'd had her shower. All she needed to better her day was nice hot bup of coffee and then the morning wouldn't seem quite as bleak as she had previously foretold. Locking herself inside her dorm door, Taylor pulled on clothing that would cover her unsightly battle-scars. Grey shorts and a white and orange half-sleeved jersey-T, with a simple bird skeleton sketched across the front in orange to match the sleeves. Red, almost brown, shoes covered her chafed feet and ankles from the world and matched her lipstick.

A brown bomber jacket, hanging open to show the shirt's design hid any bruises that may show through the shirt and she was finished with an hour or so to spare before her class. Taylor pondered that cup of coffee which didn't seem so impossible anymore.

She swung her heavy backpack, like her comforter it was Captian America themed, onto her shoulder. She stumbled as the full bag pulled on her spine, but regained her balance and walked gracefully back into the hallway.

Following Maggie's trail downstairs, Taylor walked slower than her usual bounce-of-a-stride would normally allow. They day was going to suck, she knew it. What with the nightmare and all her injuries piling up on her, she was going to be extremely sore and more than irritable.

Taylor habitually flipped her hair over her shoulder as she entered the mess hall. Walking over to the coffee machine, she noticed the glass to be empty. The red-headed girl scowled and mumbled complaints of laziness before beginning her quest of coffee making.

"Hay, kid."

An agitated eyebrow twitched upwards as she slowly turned around to gaze at a tall muscled boy standing next to her. His hair was very dark and he was noticeably Filipino, she knew immediately who it was.

"Jesse," she greeted, trying her best to be civil, "[I] haven't seen you in a while."

It was true; Taylor had been making herself scarce lately. She simply had so much to do with her school work, part-time job, and equally busy nights which always ended up with her crashed in her dorm that she'd left no time at all for her friends.

"I know," He raised his eyebrows, "Where've you been, white kid?"

Rolling her eyes, she returned to her coffee, which had finished, "Busy, as always."

Jesse was an easy sell with the whole "in college you have to choose two of three options: A social life, studying, and sleep" speech. Apparently he'd been having similar problems. _If only he knew_, Taylor mentally scoffed.

After fixing her coffee, they traveled over to their group's usual table; everyone was there, some grumpy (Taylor), others cheerful (Jesse), but most were exhausted, their ability to stay awake enforced by energy drinks.

Maggie eyed her roommate, "You okay, Tay?"

Taylor gazed at her blonde friend, sensing the bond between them growing strong like something fierce. She knew immediately that her roomy hadn't said a word about the morning's outburst to their other friends.

Taylor's eyebrow twitched up as if to shrug, "Slow morning."

Maggie nodded in acceptance, looking away to talk to someone from the debate team about something "very important."

"You guys hear about that robbery at the jewelry store on 5th?" inquired a blonde boy, Mark, after a few long minutes of idle conversation. Everyone in the group had a similar answer, "No." Taylor tried to seem uninterested even though her mind was reeling with guilty excitement.

"Yeah," he continued, matter-of-fact, "Apparently Batman whooped his butt then hog-tied him in the display window!"

Taylor's jaw clenched and her expression darkened while her thoughts shrieked unspeakable words. Jesse whistled, "Dag, ever since the first Robin left for Jump and the second Robin disappeared, Batman's been all over the place knocking out guys left and right!"

"Oh yeah," Maggie lifted her head from her self claimed important, "Robin's been gone for a few weeks hasn't he? I wonder what happened."

"Taylor would know. She's the only one who still reads the paper! Right, Tay-," Jesse's laughter stopped when he turned around, "Where'd she go?"

**\~~/**

Taylor Riot was furious to the point of bursting as she stormed out of the mess hall. The nerve of that stupid flying rodent! She'd been working her butt off for any sort of recognition, but _no_! The _oh-so-flipping-awesome_ Batman and Boy Wonder were the only conceivable do-gooders in Gotham worth any amount of attention!

_This is inexcusable bull-crap!_ Her mind shouted at her what she already understood. How much more clear did she need to be? She wasn't Batman and most certainly not Robin, how much simpler than a note _signed by Claw _could it get.

Taylor's angry path lead her to the center of Gotham U's campus courtyard and she plopped down in between the giant roots of an enormous oak tree, tossing her book bag out in front of her.

"Stupid bat," she grumbled. For the longest time, Taylor continued to complain about how unfair the whole thing was, realizing after a while that she was acting like a spoiled child in the middle of a temper tantrum. Her visage saddened at the thought of a young child and she tried to push herself onto a new topic-

Before her thoughts could continue and spoil anything else for you readers, Taylor's watch started to beep. Silencing the annoying noise with a push of a button, she knew her first class of the day would be starting in fifteen minutes. Normally that would mean she should start walking, but this Professor was infamous in Taylor's circle of friends for starting class early.

With an aggravated sigh, Taylor hoisted herself up from her surprisingly comfy position against the cold oak roots and paced across the grass, passed large groups of co-eds playing football, Frisbee, or just hanging out on the warm lawn. Sunlight peaked through green leaves and smiled on the slightly damp ground in a pattern one could only find under the large oaks around Gotham U.

The sense of normalcy brought a smile back to grace Taylor's beautiful features, remembering that Batman wasn't her problem until nightfall.

Pulling out her iPod and placing one headphone in her ear while allowing the other to hang around her neck, Taylor put her favorite play list on shuffle and allowed her smile to take hold of her body, a forgotten bounce returning to her step as she pushed all matters Emily and Claw-related to the back of her mind.

**\~~/**

**Sad, angsty, and uneventful; I know. Sorry! I needed to build character and set the basic timeline, plus I've been listening to Linkin Park's My December, Leave Out All the Rest, and The Little Things Give You Away so I got all depressed. (BTW those songs may make you cry like a baby if you read the dream passage while listening, I know I did.)**

**I guarantee an actual fight scene in the next chapter for the action lovers, more angst for the sad-face lovers, and more of our favorite cannon villains for EVERYBODY! I'm very excited because I think I may introduce the second OC I was referring to in the first chapter's AN and present the a few of the bad guys!**

**Thanks for reading! R&R!**


	3. Friday: Bad Guys and Gingers Oh My!

**Sorry about the wait! Stupid Hurricane Irene, right? That bitch better get back in the kitchen and make me a damn sammich! (That's the only cursing in here! Scout's honor!)**

**I'm not super-well versed in the comic timelines, so I'm changing it to benefit my story… It's fanfiction so why not?**

**Orange and Black**

**Chapter Three**

_Hopefully, we can build a rivalry and we'll be able to do this a lot. Make a legacy, then retire [as] champions. -Serena Williams_

Low on the horizon, meeting with the ground between the partings of the oak trees, the sun was beginning to fade. Her psych class had run late, yet again. After three months of lectures, you'd have thought Crane would have learned to shorten his elaborate speeches on Jung to an appropriate length. Alas, it wasn't to be. And to top it all off, they'd been assigned a final project. Taylor's partner?

Barbra Gordon.

One of Taylor's uppity personal philosophies was to be a friend to all, but Barbra Gordon made that rule almost impossible to follow. It was a rare occurrence for the commissioner's daughter to actually stay awake for the whole of Crane's lectures, then again it was hard for _Taylor_ to stay awake; but one had to consider that Taylor moonlighted as a vigilante beating up bad guys with her bare hands.

Taylor highly doubted Barbra had that particular excuse.

Yet, no matter how much studying Taylor did, she always came second best to smarty-pants-Gordon: the _genius_. Edict memory and three seconds per page reading speed? Yeah right. Taylor was positive Barbra was cheating.

There was nothing Taylor despised more than a liar…

"Barbra," Taylor called to her fellow soulless ginger, "Barbra! Will you wait up, for God's sake?"

Barbra turned around, features blocked by a somewhat large set of spectacles. Yes, she was beautiful, but in a unique way. Barbra was well built, like many heath nuts in Gotham, and shapely. The latter making Taylor's bitter attitude shift to slight jealousy. Barbra had a strong face, as opposed to Taylor's soft and very feminine features, yet it was still very attractive.

Barbra smiled back at Taylor's approaching form, who found a way to make the friendly gesture seem insincere.

"It's Taylor, right?" Barbra asked, holding out her hand expectantly as Taylor halted.

_Of course it's Taylor, you idiot. Crane JUST told you my name like two minutes ago._

Taylor's brow twitched upwards with her nod, "Sure is, and you're Barbra."

It wasn't a question, but Barbra answered, "Yeah," anyway. Taylor found herself growing steadily more annoyed with the other ginger the longer they were near. Hoping that feeling would fade, being stuck with the partner, Taylor continued to hold back most of her contempt.

"So," Barbra released Taylor's hand and they started to walk towards the dorms, "What's our topic? I don't think I heard it."

_I don't hear things when I'm asleep either._ Taylor waved her hand in dismissal, "Ethics. You know, right, wrong, and the like."

"'The like'?" she frowned at our protagonist.

Taylor shrugged, "Crane said something about wither ethics differ in different societies or if there's a universally understood truth. How are the beliefs inspired, why do they exist, and, lastly, how can servants of these ethics manifest their practices?"

**(A.N. I actually had an essay prompt very similar to this one. I used it as an excuse to write about Batman.)**

That elicited a drawn out sigh from Barbra, "Great."

A ghost of a chuckle escaped Taylor's lips, "Shouldn't be _that_ bad. I mean, at least we aren't locked to a paper or anything. We could always make a video."

A smirk etched it's way across Barbra's face, "Yeah, 'cause that worked out sowell the last time you tried!"

Taylor clicked her tongue against her teeth at that, "Granted, it was _my_ mistake to make a parody of Crane's favorite lecture topic. I'm telling you that man's _so_ _sensitive_, watch him come into school with a gun or something… but, that's beside the point."

Barbra laughed and stopped walking when they reached the parking lot, Taylor paused for only a moment to say, "If we make a video, _a serious one_, or a poster for all I care, we can finish this thing in a week or two and get at least a 'B.'"

The commissioner's daughter looked away in thought, "Okay. Let's think about it and talk again tomorrow. Starbucks, three o'clock?"

Taylor turned on her heel and walked away with a careless wave over her shoulder, "See yah then."

Hearing Barbra peel out of the parking lot, Taylor rolled her eyes, insulting phrases coming to mind. Now, Taylor was never an _overly_ competitive person, but while she'd been hard at work trying to become valedictorian of the senior class, Barbra was always sleeping yet _still_ top of the class.

Taylor Riot was NOT jealous. It simply killed her on the inside that the old phrase "cheaters never prosper" was failing at life.

Taylor arrived in her dorm room to find Maggie had already left, probably for some frat party, and she chucked her things into the closet. In no mood to spend her usual three hours on homework, Taylor grabbed the medium sized black trunk from the bottom of her closet, opened it, and suited up.

The night was hers again.

\~~~/

The salubrious nighttime air was alive with the buzzing and blinking orange neon shining from a gentlemen's club, a warning of the…_dirtier _sections of Gotham. The streets seemed especially depressing underneath the cliché howl-worthy full moon, reveling the surprisingly-present pools of polluted rain littering the rooftops.

The still-damp concrete rooftops were silent, eerily so. The puddles were akin to manifested shadows, still and glass-like, reflecting the moonlight. Then quickly, missed by a flicker of the eye, the reflection rippled like in _Jurassic Park_. Then again. A splash sounded almost before the neon boot had a chance to kick off again, leaving the puddle blurred.

She immediately went into action throwing up her right arm to block the man's in-coming left hook. The man's wild haymaker met the teen's elbow, then his knee met Claw's sturdy hands, blocking the attack on the girl's brightly clad abdomen. Claw leapt up and threw out her leg at the man's face, missing narrowly. The masked man threw his weight into his fist, aiming for Claw's nose.

_Bob and weave_, _vulnerable left ribs. Kick to diaphragm._

Claw, quick as a hungry guy at Golden Coral, ducked and maneuvered around the limb then sent out a swift, but strong, body hook to the man's weakened left ribs. Claw hardly gave the guy time to stumble back before delivering a jab-like kick into his diaphragm. The masked man propelled away a few feet and landed on his back, hard.

Thankful for the moments of breath, Claw took the opportunity to run. Turning tail, she quickly sprinted towards the ledge. Hearing footsteps, she quickly dodged to the left, turning in mid-air to face the man.

She ducked a high kick and attempted to swipe out at the masked man's legs. He leapt up in response, retaliating with a kick that caught Claw off guard. Trying to stand up and throw in a right cross, Claw had no time to think before a shin struck her exposed ribs followed quickly by…some sort of bone crushing Hulk-punch to her face that sent her spiraling.

With a hissing intake of oxygen, Claw stumbled away, clutching her ribs. She was lucky. If she hadn't breathed out when he had struck, forcing her ribs to tighten, she could have been dealing with broken bones. As if she didn't have enough problems. Now that she thought about it, her hand's were throbbing after that knee block, and her already injured ribs were screaming at her, her masked face could wait for analysis later.

_What's with this guy? The cash is gone! Why's he still fighting?_

"Is that all you've got?" the masked man taunted.

"Shut up!" Claw lashed out, voice harsh and unforgiving. The red-head charged, leaping into the air and swiping a kick at her opponent's face with an angry cry. Miss, dodge, punch, blocked. Jump off ledge, kick to face. He went around it. Retaliate. Blocked. Move, _too_ _slow_! The masked man snatched Claw's bicep and heaved her in the other direction.

A traumatized outcry later, Claw grimaced in pain after she practically flew across the roof, falling into backwards summersaults before slamming back first into the two-foot concrete wall. Rolling to her hands and knees, she coughed out a swear.

"You're going to have to do better than that," the masked man chastised, "I haven't even broken a sweat."

Claw's teeth ground together like faulty clock gears and she glared, forcing herself back up. Leaping back into the fight was easy, staying in however was much more difficult than the red-head was willing to stand. There was simply no time to think about the next move with this masked man always there to exploit every flaw in her technique. A technique she'd spent five painstaking years perfecting.

Punch, kick, block, step ba-where'd that pipe come from? Turn it into a roll-he followed-go into a handstand, kick him in the chest. Success!

The masked man stumbled backward. Claw was on her feet and moving before the masked man fully regained his balance. Ducking forwards, Claw could feel just how close a blind fist swiped at her skull, but that didn't stop her assault. The masked man ducked under the red-head's unorthodox kick and attacked in return.

Claw used a short back-handspring to dodge, then kicked out at the masked man's abdomen. He easily avoided the girl's limb and expertly dodged an angry right cross. For Claw, time was moving much to fast as they blocked, bobbed, and weaved around each other's fists, elbows, knees, kicks, and was that a head-butt? Claw was so out-of-it, in fact, she was unable to recognize what movements she was making until she was already in the middle of the attack.

But, the masked man remained three steps ahead.

"Speed, aggression, adaptation, improvisation, good technique." he praised, blocking Claw's frustratingly slowing attacks.

_WHACK_

Having picked up on Claw's breathing patterns, the one-eyed man was able to strike a powerful hit to the vigilante's diaphragm, effectively knocking the breath out of her comparably small body.

With a coughing release of the remaining air in her lungs, followed by a painful _thud_, Claw collapsed, hitting her head hard against the textured concrete rooftop. The red haired girl groaned, finding it excessively painful to move as she rolled over. The feeling increased when the masked man's foot stomped on her abdomen, forcing a painful shriek from the girl's lips and pinning her to the rooftop.

"But, I was expecting perfection from one of Batman's _sidekicks_," the masked man said cruelly, "How disappointing."

Claw's hands desperately clawed at the crushing foot as she seethed, "Are you kidding?-_*breathes heavily*-_I'm no sidekick!"

"Really?" He asked, voice monotonous and portraying none of his surprise.

She gasped another deep breath, "What's your-*_breathes heavily*-_deal?-_*breaths again*-_What do-yah want?"

"Now, now, child." the masked man chastised at the gasping teen as if he had said this a million times before, "Patience."

Shaking in some mixture of exhaustion, pain, and fury, Claw growled through clenched teeth, "_Don't_ _lecture m_-!"

The masked man lifted his foot and slammed it back down onto the poor teen's diaphragm, interrupting the shouting and instead bringing a blood chilling outcry. Claw released the man's foot as it lifted again; groaning, she rolled over to her side, facing away from the man, and hugged her chest, trying to relieve the pain in any way she could. Claw's face scrunched up in pain as her eye involuntarily twitched, responding to her turmoil.

"Get up, girl."

Claw groaned again as she rolled onto her front and supported her body on the right elbow, leaving her left arm to caress her torso.

The masked man's voice grew frighteningly deeper, "I _said-_"

Claw greedily sucked in oxygen, before losing it after a foot connected with her bruised ribs, chucking her onto her battered back once again. In the distance, something dark, a flying shapeless blob faded into sight.

"_Get up_," the masked man repeated menacingly, his one eye narrowing.

Clenching her teeth, Claw rolled over and forced herself onto all fours. With the sort of rejuvenated energy the masked man knew came only from shear willpower, and fear of course, the vigilante began to push herself up. The shadowy blob grew larger, looking almost like a humanoid yet monstrous version of the black-glass puddles that soaked Claw's cape.

"Very good," the masked man cooed, sounding pleased before his voice turned serious, "Now ru-"

_WHAM_

Boots, black combat ones, collided with the man's shoulder blades, sending him flying forward. The shadow person, no longer a blob, landed with a small splash where the masked man had been previously. The man, Claw was glad to see him caught off-guard, landed on his face only yards away from Claw herself.

Last night, Claw had decidedly held contempt for The Bat. Yet here she was, defying her feelings, never as joyous to see anyone more than she was to see him now from her peripherals.

Claw stopped trying to get up as she reached her knees, palm to the unforgiving ground. Her jaw dropped and her brow furrowed like a dumbfounded cartoon. That wasn't The Bat; it had the ears, the cape, the belt, but this was all wrong.

Batgirl bobbed and weaved around the masked man's attacks much easier than Claw had, but her moves were more predictable, too formal and lacked improvisation.

The man was gaining control of the fight eerily quickly and eventually, Batgirl shouted for Claw to run. Forcing herself to her wobbly knees and catching herself before she could fall back to the ground, Claw knew she had to get out of there. As much as it murdered her pride, she wouldn't be any help in her current state; heck, she might even get herself, and Batgirl, killed.

Brown eyes catching sight of a wooden door, that would probably open to downward stairs, Claw stumbled into a weak sprint. Stride growing faster and faster as she approached in excitement, Claw braced her shoulder for impact, no intentions of stopping once she was in.

_CRACK!_

Claw's disoriented body ricocheted off the wood door and she fell on her face, shoulder screaming. Yes, the door had caved against the force of her body, but only partially. When she looked back, she saw why: the hinges were on _her_ side of the door.

_Stupid_, she berated herself, _stupid, stupid, stupid._

Rolling back towards her shoulders, Claw used her hands to push off the ground and kicked herself up to her feet, only for her side to suddenly get acquainted with the masked man's foot.

Mind you, this wasn't the kind of kick that someone delivered after walking up to you, picking up their leg, and letting you have it. No, this was a "dynamic entry" type of kick and it sent poor Claw crashing through the splintering remains of the wooden door.

She fell through the air with prolonged suspension, meeting the bottom of the first flight of stairs when gravity finally did it's painful job. A curse flew from Claw's breathless body as she lay there, movement a laughable subject for several moments. Even if she wanted to suffer the pain of movement, Claw would never have made it anywhere, for the masked man was crouching over her.

"Not so fast, girl," he growled sharply as an unforgiving hand close around her throat, "I'm not finished with you yet."

Claws eyes, aided by the surrounding shadows, narrowed to white slits behind her serrated mask, "But, _I'm_ finished with _you!_"

With a kind of B-A battle cry, she kicked out with her legs into the man's crotch, sending him flying forwards into the wall behind her head.

_CRASH_

Sparks danced across Claw's vision and for a moment, she thought she had passed out. _No_. She rolled to her stomach, and saw the yellow flicks of electricity coming from the masked man's face.

_No flipping way…_

The robot slouched to the floor and Claw's adrenaline had her crawling to the imposter's side in nano-seconds, ignoring the cries of concern from the top of the stairs. With a grunt, she flipped the hunk-o-junk over and saw the mask, half orange and half black was split. The majority of the black side crumbled at her touch and clattered against the floor, revealing half of a cracked glass screen.

With a twitch of her fingers, the orange side (attached to a the few remaining black pieces) fell into her hands. The screen contained nothing but static for a moment then it flickered, the quality was terrible and the static combated with the picture for dominance.

On the screen, Claw couldn't believe what she saw.

"Very good, child. I never would have expected you to go below the belt," the masked man on the screen praised, though his voice suggested nothing less than distaste. The red-head's jaw dropped as the sound of timid footfalls sounded from behind her.

"Wha-? Who-?" Claw stammered, her hair stuck to her face with salty sweat and something warm trickling from her hairline.

The masked man interrupted, "All in good time, girl, all in good time," before the static reclaimed control of the screen. Then it was black. The staircase was dark as pitch and eerie as the eye of a hurricane.

"I have a name, you kno-"

Suddenly, something sturdy and unforgiving was around her neck. Claw gagged and struggled as she was dragged back up the stairs. Black spikes from the side of gauntlets unveiled themselves in the moonlight when she reached the top of the stairs, only for a shove to sit her on the rooftop.

"Was that _really_ necessary?" Claw shrieked, regretting it a bit later when yet another figure was crouched over her. Trying the same maneuver, Claw brought her legs up to the shadow's groin.

"_Ah!_"

Claw cursed again, pulling her leg back from The Batgirl's body armor, clutching it tightly against her battered frame. She'd come prepared. Batgirl possessed a short slender frame, yet she was very imposing from that angle in her black and yellow garb, a mask covered her whole head and sported two pointed triangles on the top of her hidden hairline.

The Batgirl's costume consisted of, _apparently_, full black body armor, with claw like spikes on the sides of her forearms, a yellow utility belt, black boots, and a short black cape (grey on the inside.) An outline of the bat symbol sat proudly on her chest, beaming yellow in Claw's fuzzy vision.

Claw suddenly felt very threatened.

Batgirl's eyes were only small concaving circles in her mask just above the impression of a nose, like hollow sockets ready to swallow Claw whole. The bat's sidekick leaned in close to Claw's face, "Why was he chasing you!"

Claw's fear overlaid with confusion at that, "What?"

A growl of annoyance, "_Why. Was. He. Chasing. You?_ It's not a difficult question!"

"How should _I_ know! I passed him on the rooftop when I heard a bank alarm! He just attacked!" Claw sent a fierce glare.

Batgirl paused, perhaps in surprise, Claw wondered. After a moment, the sidekick spoke, voice much less harsh, "You mean he attacked you for no reason?"

"Isn't that what I said?" Claw snarled. She shoved at the girl above her, "Now _get off me!_"

Batgirl allowed Claw to shove her up. The latter rolled over, resting her head on her arm.

"What'd he steal?"

Claw huffed a chuckle, "Nothing."

Bargirl's voice morphed to confusion as Claw pushed herself up, "You said-"

"I know what I said," Claw snapped, "I didn't let him keep it. The cash he stole, I mean."

Standing at full height now, Claw could see just how powerful Batgirl looked; something about her standing straight made her seem in control, or was it the faceless mask? Claw couldn't be sure.

"Where is it?" Batgirl asked impatiently, quickly getting over Claw's attitude.

"Some alley back that way," Claw waved her hand to the north, "It's probably still there."

\~~~/

Elsewhere, in an alley about three buildings back, the scruffy elder gent from chapter two was trotting along his favorite path; in fact, it was the only one he knew of which didn't hind a million and one druggy inhabitants. He never touched the stuff, personally.

Probably because he couldn't afford it, but let's not argue semantics; the point was he didn't dabble with the drugs, no matter how much Arty, his friend, insisted he try.

Back to topic, "scruffy elder gent" practically strutted down the alley as if he owned it. Spotting his favorite dumpster hangout, he bounded for the green container he planned to sleep in that night, when she spotted something funny. Or rather, funny _looking_.

Pausing in his steps, he stared at the bag whose slightly damp contents were spread out of it like spilt milk. Spilt _green papery_ milk. Taking three big steps, he knelt over the bag, inspecting it.

Perhaps it was time to pay Arty a visit after all…

\~~~/

"So what's your name?"

The question caught Claw off guard, "Tay-wha-…Why do you ask?"

Batgirl shrugged, giving no indication that she had noticed the slip, "You've got the costume, so you gotta have a name, don't you?"

Claw rose an eyebrow, "…Claw."

A nod later, Batgirl held out her hand, "Batgirl."

"Duh," Claw sighed, taking her hand. The shake was uncomfortable on Claw's part, so she quickly released the hand and started walking in the opposite direction. Eyes locked on the ledge, knowing of the escape route waiting for her. With a careless wave over her head, Claw spoke awkwardly, "Thanks, I guess. For the help, I mean..."

"Wanna meet up?" Batgirl inqured, cautious. "Starbucks? Three o'clock?"

Claw halted in her steps, chest constricting for a moment, before a smirked apeard on the vigilante's face, "Make it three thirty, I've got a previous engagement."

When she turned, Batgirl was gone.

\~~~/

**Warning: I've got a lot to say.**

**I've been thinking and I figure that it's only fair to tell you what characters I plan to use in this story (some have already appeared):**

**Confirmed****: Batman, Alfred, Nightwing (later), Jason Todd/Robin (later), Batgirl/Oracle, Commissioner Gordon, Scarecrow, Slade(small part for now), The Joker, The Red Hood (later), The Black Mask (later), Amazo (later), Ra's al Ghul (small role later), and Salvatore Maroni (later).**

**Under Consideration (I have ideas, but not sure how to properly use them)****: Two-Face, The Riddler, Hush (Tommy Elliot might make a brief appearance soon), Harley Quinn, The Great White Shark, Carmine Falcone, Victor Zsasz, Hugo Strange, Jack Ryder/The Creeper, and Catwoman.**

**Feel free to request someone. I promise to deliver! …I'm a woman of my word.**

**ONE LAST THING:**

**I chose the Cassandra Cain costume because it seemed the most intimidating, but the character is still Barbra Gordon. Plus, if both Claw and Batgirl had exposed red-hair that would be weird (and this author is dumb and didn't think of that before she started writing. **_**Stupid, stupid, stupid.**_**)**


	4. Monday Morning: Detective Fran Fine

**Sorry it took so long; I wanted this chapter to be perfect (but I'm sure I've missed plenty of problems). I took The Original Fiction Mary-Sue Litmus Test for Taylor/Claw and got 20 points: The Non-Sue! Yay! I hope it reigns true. Things will start to get a little more intense from here… Not graphic, but intense.**

**Orange and Black  
>Chapter Four<strong>

_Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.  
>-William Shakespeare<em>

Sleet feel from the blackened sky over Gotham City's oldest family home. In sight of the main city, on an island at the perfect angle to study the labyrinth of slums, stood a silhouetted Arkham Asylum; it's crumbling walls, mismatched with old and new brick, resounded with the cries of the insane, evil, and a few geniuses. The island was miniscule compared to the city, and the mansion the asylum occupied spread over practically every inch of the moss-covered rock. There was a filthy feeling about the place: something that was both repugnant and frightening. Even the rain seemed contaminated- acidic, filthy.

As the sky's tears formed crowds in front of the main gates, two spotlights-brighter than normal high beams-exposed the greenery, the seasonal grey and ugly browns, surrounding the road to Arkham Island. The spotlights grew larger and reflected off the sleek black vehicle; the aptly named Batmobile squealed to a halt only three paces from disaster. There was a release in air pressure as the car door opened upwards, like something cheesy from _Back to the Future._

Gotham's infamous gargoyle, a caped crusader, emerged from the car door, slamming it shut, and proceeded through the iron prongs chained together to form a vicious looking gate; The Dark Knight didn't bother to close the gate as he glided into the intensive treatment building. Outside the door, there were two beat cops and an elder man waiting with umbrellas and coffee; the elder one, Commissioner Gordon, shoved his steaming cup into the hands of the nearest cop and grabbed his hat as he scurried after The Batman.

Drops of rain flicked off the sleek black cape and make a trail of crumbs for the commissioner to track. Batman walked through the lobby, ignoring Pearl, the Warden's personal secretary, and pushed his way to Cell Block 7. As he nodded to Pearl, Gordon almost smiled at her desk nick-nac: a small translucent sign that read _You don't have to be CRAZY to work here-but it HELPS._

The vigilante's cape fluttered behind him as if caught in the wind as he took meaningful strides towards the end of the hall; he knew his destination. Gordon took long almost tiresome steps after his-well, one wouldn't call them friends but...

His thoughts ran dry at the sign to his left, he was moving so quickly it was a miracle he managed to make out what it said: _Dent H. 0751_. The further the police commissioner moved, the more he craned his neck to glance at the former district attorney (DA), Harvey "TwoFace" Dent; the criminal looked pale, sickly, and his hair was black, greasy, and matted on one side, while wild, white, and messy on the other.

The proper side of his face, all that remained of the DA, was hardly the recognizable handsome face Gordon had once known. The other side was purple, scared with acid, and horrifying as ever. The twisted side's mouth pulled back and around the model white teeth in a gruesome smile. The eyelid pulled a similar maneuver, exposing the eye and preventing Harvey from ever blinking again. Gordon never bothered to have it checked, but he sometimes wondered if Harvey still retained sight in both eyes.

Realizing his pace had fallen behind The Batman's own, he jogged back to his position behind the flapping cape. After rounding a corner, Gordon stopped abruptly to prevent a collision with the Dark Knight. An Arkham security guard, Lyle Bolton, saluted the vigilante and unlocked the steel door labeled _Name Unknown 4479._

After Batman strolled into the cell, Bolton slammed it shut and locked the door. No such thing as too careful.

The Batman didn't flinch at the loud sound, his focus was only on the cell's occupant; engulfed in shadows, The Joker sat in a chair while playing a game of solitaire with his signature cards; his face only barely visible.

_There were these two guys in a lunatic asylum…_

The Batman snatched up the only other chair in the room and abruptly sat down at the other side of the table.

_FNAP. _The Joker snapped another card to the stack closest to the door.

"Hello," growled The Batman, "I came to talk."

The Joker didn't pause in his game, but said nothing. _FNAP. _He picked up yet another card.

"I've been thinking lately," Batman continued, his voice gruff and raspy, "about you an me. About what's going to happen to us, in the end…We're going to kill each other, aren't we?"

_FNAP._ Gordon flinched at the sound as he watched from behind the bars, outside the door.

Batman kept talking, growing ever more agitated, "Perhaps you'll kill me. Perhaps I'll kill you. Perhaps sooner. Perhaps later. I just wanted to know that I'd made an attempt to talk things over and avert that outcome. Just once."

_FNAP. _Batman's fists clenched.

The vigilante snatched The Joker's hand, forcing the criminal to stop his game. Batman growled, "Are you listening to me? It's _life_ and _death_ I'm discussing here. Maybe _my_ death…"

The Joker snatched back his hand, clutching it as if he was in pain… Batman was still riled up, and continued his speech, pointing accusingly at the Joker, "Maybe _yours_. I don't fully understand why ours should be a _fatal_ relationship, but I don't want your murder on my…"

That's when The Dark Knight noticed something odd about Joker's hand, still clutched by it's counterpart. There were smudges. Batman turned his hands round, and saw white smears on his glove.

"…hands…" Batman's voice trailed off, then his head snapped up as he leapt up and reached out, snatching the criminal's face and pulling him forward.

"H-hey…" came the clown, finally speaking up as Batman pulled his face into the light.

"_Hey_! Wait a minute! Don't _touch_ me! I got _rights_! You're not allowed to-" The imposter cried as Batman held him still, his make up wiping away at Batman's touch.

"**_Where IS he!_**"

The Joker-imposter cried, "Aaaaaaaa! Oh, God! No-!"

"**_Do you REALIZE! Do you know what you've set free? WHERE. IS. HE?_**"

Gordon started from behind the door as the criminal screetched, "EEEEEEEEGH! Get him offa me!"

"Dear, God," Gordon shouted at Bolton, "He's gone _berserk_! Open that door, Bolton!"

The more the criminal screamed, the more Bolton fumbled with the lock. The moment he got it open, Gordon rushed inside, "_Okay! _That's enough! You know the laws regarding mistreatment of inmates as well as I do!"

Batman paused in the assault, and the poor man whimpered. Gordon breathed angrily, "If you harm ONE hair on his head-!"

"Commissioner," Batman said, venom lacing his words, "if you're concerned about it, it's _yours_. Take care of it."

At the sight of the Joker imposter, Gordon froze and his jaw dropped; Batman turned his attention to the inmate, "Now, you _whimpering little smear of_**_slime_**, I'm going to ask you politely ONE. MORE. TIME.

"**_WHERE. IS. HE?_**"

\~~~~/

_The Monday after…_

Not that she was a saint, but never before, not once in her entire twenty-one years of life, had Taylor ever said more foul things than she did that morning (in fact, she was sure she invented several of them.)

Granted, Taylor was alone and whispering to herself, wrapped in her Captain America comforter on that "glorious" Monday morning, but that somehow didn't make it okay. To top it all off, the one time Maggie wasn't there to wake Taylor up, the _sun_ had woken her up instead as it peaked through the make-shift curtains.

You might remark that one could always get up and close the curtains, but, like the previous night when Taylor had thrown herself into bed, further movement was an impossibility. How did Batman do it? Or even Batgirl? What was the secret to not, well, feeling like _crap_ after a massive butt-whooping by Mystery Masked Guy #1.

_They DON'T get their butts whooped, THAT'S the secret,_ Taylor thought bitterly.

The young protagonist was so tired when she got back, she'd forgotten to remove her mask, or even wash the blood off her body. Thanks to this sad fact, she found out a little practical math the hard way:

Blood + sleep = unhappy Captain America comforter

Disgusted, but perfectly content, with her sedentary state, Taylor laid in her bunk staring at her broken alarm clock through the serrated mask. If she ever got up, she should probably get a new clock…and send her uncle a thank you email for paying for the damages in the dorm wall, which until quite recently sported an alarm clock shaped hole.

Using all the will she could muster, Taylor thrust her arm forth, hindered by immediate pangs of reminders of her recent failure, she wrapped her fingers around a black rectangle next to her cracked alarm clock. Pulling the cell phone to rest in front of her face, she ignored a missed call and read the time: 6:00am. Her arm, still clutching her cell, fell back to her side; if she didn't get up now, Taylor feared that she might never do so again.

Forcing herself up was torture, no doubt behind it. There were parts of her body throbbing that she didn't even know had gotten hit; then there was the sections of her body that she knew would have the worse of it and they certainly did. Slowly reaching up and pulling out her ponytail, Taylor let her hair hang in her face as she pealed off her mask and costume from the night before. Making sure to place the colorful costume back in the black trunk in her closet, she skimmed her closet for something comfy.

Only after she had put on underclothes and a large Gotham U football mock-jersey, the sound of knuckles against wood reverberated throughout her dorm room.

Taylor called out in request, "One second!"

Grabbing a pair of jeans and sliding them on she thumped against the door for balance.

"Who's there?" she called.

"Gotham PD," grumbled the voice. Taylor froze, second leg halfway into her pants. Oh, no: this was it. Claw was done and Taylor was going to jail. Her first thought was to run, but she dismissed it immediately: in her current state, she wouldn't even make it off campus.

"Hello?" came the gruff voice of the police outside.

Taylor was shaking as she yanked her pants on and buttoned them. "Hi," she word-vomited lamely.

"Look, Ms. Riot, I got places tah go and paperwork tah write-"

Taylor jerked the door open, "Okay," she gulped, "let's get this over with."

The first thing she noticed was the gold badge accented with antique finishing: Major Crimes Unit. The next thing was the man holding it; he certainly wasn't what she expected.

Dressed in one of the most untidy, coffee stained suits Taylor had ever seen, dirty and balding severely, stood a burly man; he had five o'clock shadow (a _few_ hours early, might we add) and what was left of his hair was greasy and matted.

"'ay, Ms. Riot, I'm Detective Bullock with the Major-," His face changed to that of surprise, "Jeez! You okay, kid?"

In alarm, Taylor shushed him, "Could you **_possibly_** keep your voice down?"

Bullock rose an eyebrow, making his shock at her appearance look more like mild disgust. With a exasperated sigh, Taylor stepped to the side and ushered the detective inside.

"What happen'd?" Bullock questioned in his clearly Queens accent.

"What?" She said out of reflex as she quickly but quietly slammed the door.

Bullock paused, as if she were stupid, "Your face, kid? What happen'd?"

Her jaw fell slack for a moment and she suddenly understood he wasn't here to arrest her; if he was, he'd have known all about her exploit's the night before…right?

"Oh, um…," Taylor stumbled ungracefully back into reality, "Oh-I-um…uh-fell."

"You fell?" Bullock's hint of sarcasm and a pinch of smart-alic gave her the hint that he didn't buy it. Was she a moron? Of course he didn't believe that! What in the world was wrong with her? _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

"Wha-wha-wha-well, no, bu-b-b-but I-um…" She continued to rack her brain for solutions, "Why're you here?"

The abrupt question surprised Bullock as he stood in the center of her and her roommate's messy dorm.

"You mean you haven't noticed?" the burly man re-rose his eyebrow in question.

"_What?_ What, in God's good name, have I _not noticed_?" Taylor huffed, way too tired to deal with word-crap from Officer Butthead.

"Um…" he scanned his pocket for something, then pulled out a notepad. Taylor repressed a sigh of impatience.

"Your roommate," he checked his notepad again, "Maggie Brown?"

Taylor's arms uncrossed and her visage morphed to horrified worry, "Oh my God, what! What happened? Is she okay?"

Bullock's own visage changed as well…to sorrow. Taylor's eyes widened and she felt weak. What happened to Maggie? Was she hurt? In jail? Worse?

"Um…" Bullock stated sadly, "Her body was recovered-"

"_Body?_" Taylor repeated in dying whisper.

"-from central park…" Bullock focused his eyes on his notepad, so he wouldn't have to watch poor Taylor break apart, "She was murdered last night around eleven t'irty. Did you-"

"Bu-but wha-how'd-I-don't-wha…?" Taylor trailed off, mind spinning so fast, she didn't even realize it when her butt hit the cluttered floor.

"Ms. Riot?" Came the muddled voice of the detective, "You okay?"

"Why did-who?" Thousands of questions suddenly required asking, but she kept changing her mind on what ones were most important. Bullock knelt before her and held her shoulders.

"Listen, I need you to calm down, Ms. Riot, okay? Calm down."

Even his voice was reassuring. She finally formed a coherent sentence, "Do her parents know?"

"Yes." He sounded saddened, but she knew he'd seen many cases like this one…

"Ms. Riot, you need to tell me when's the last time you saw your roommate," Bullock said calmly, something that sounded difficult for him.

Friday morning. That's the last time Taylor had seen Maggie. Why hadn't she notice her absence? Vanity? Had Taylor been so wrapped up in her own life that she hadn't noticed one of her friends was _gone_?

"Friday, at Ballet," Taylor stammered honestly. Maggie was a Dance Theater Major, where Taylor was a Dance Education Major; they had many common classes.

"And what time was that?" requested Bullock, retrieving his notepad and scribbling down everything Taylor said.

"Um…mid-day? I guess around one thirty or two…"

Bullock's pen paused it's scribbling, "Did she ever return here?"

"Not sure," Taylor said a bit too quickly, "I mean…I came back a little after eight in the evening, so she could've gone out by then."

"Do you know where she went?"

Taylor thought for a few moments, "After class, she said something about some frat party. She could have gone there, I guess…"

"Anything else?" The detective asked, eyes unwavering from Taylor's face.

The red-head's eyes snapped away from his, glancing towards the right in thought. What had Maggie said? The frat party… and something about a guy, Jesse? Yeah, it was about Jesse and Mark. Truthfully, Taylor hadn't been paying much attention; she was too focused on herself for that, an unforgiving voice reprimanded her.

"Talk to Mark Kyle," Taylor said, "Maggie follows…_followed_ him around like a love-sick puppy." Taylor smiled sadly at the thought, "He'd know more than me."

Bullock nodded and scratched more ink across his notepad, "And where were you Friday night?"

"I got mugged," finally came Taylor's lie, a decent one too, but _of course_ it came barreling out of her mouth at the wrong time.

Bullock was a hard sell, but eventually accepted her claim and who could blame him? Taylor certainly _looked_ like she'd been mugged. When he asked why she'd never reported the crime, she said taken a few of her own words from Friday night, "I didn't let him keep the cash he stole."

As Bullock left the dorm room, no longer a two-occupant, he tunred around and held out his hand. In between his fingers was a white piece of cardboard.

"If you think of something else, or you need to talk, call me from this number-" he gruffed.

"How did she die?" Taylor interrupted, not looking at him.

Bullock sighed, "Trust me, kid, you don't wanna know. What memories you got with your friend, _those_ are the t'ings you wanna remember. Not this ugly mess."

Taylor nodded and took the card. After closing the door, she suddenly felt uncomfortable with the room she stood in. Maggie's side of the room, dirty, yet cleaner than Taylor's, stared the red-head girl right in the face.

Taylor fell to her knees fro the second time in the passed few days, only this time, there was no one to comfort her.

**Hum... at least I included the part with Batman. Anyone versed in comic land knows what is sure to come. Anywho, Maggie's death DOES have a purpose. We shall find the killer and make him/her squeel like a pig! Muah-ha-ha! What'd you think? Should I try harder with the Bullock and Taylor scene? Want more imagery with the Batman scene? Let me know!**


	5. Monday Night: Pigeons Ate My Crime Scene

**Sorry I haven't updated in so long! I was busy with school and yadda yadda but on the bright side. I graduated high school!**

**Story note: The story will no longer be back and forth from drama to action; the story will now focus on the action and story line rather than Taylor's angst because I'M annoyed with it. Freaking character writes itself and she loves to be moody.**

**I hope it doesn't get confusing, but this story will consist of five to seven overlapping arcs and story lines. Hope you enjoy!**

**Orange and Black**

**Chapter Five**

Taylor skipped her classes that day. Probably unwise considering it was the last week before exams but she didn't care. Leaning against her dorm door in a lazy sitting position, she waited for night to fall. The day passed with unbearable slowness.

Around six in the afternoon, her phone rang. The generic sound caught her attention and she flipped it open. "Hello?"

The voice on the other line sounded relieved, "Taylor? Oh, thank God, I thought something happened!"

"Barbra? How'd you get my number?"

"That's not important," Barbra dismissed. Taylor rolled her eyes as Barbra continued the phone conversation, "You were supposed to meet me at Starbucks like two days ago, remember? I figured you forgot but, when you didn't show for psychology, I got a little worried."

Taylor winced, her vanity had really blinded her lately, "Oh…my bad."

Her voice grew sympathetic, "I heard about your roommate-"

"Look, I've got to go. It's going to get dark soon and I need to go grocery shopping."

Barbra chuckled slightly, "Yeah, grocery shopping. Got it. Can we meet at Central Park? I know that's where you're going."

Confused for only a moment, Taylor nodded with her words, "Sure…thanks, Barb."

Taylor could practically hear Barbra's grin, "Not a problem. Eight o'clock and don't be late."

Hanging up the phone Taylor sat still for a few seconds, lost in thought, before yanking herself up and heading to the once-shared closet. She switched her jeans out with her favorite black skinny jeans: ripped at the knees and worn into flexibility: then pulled off her mock-jersey and replaced it with a black sports bra. Looking at her choice in clothes, she knew she had no particularly dark sweatshirts.

Feeling almost guilty, Taylor grabbed Maggie's black zip-up hoodie: a gift Taylor had given her the year before. On the hoodie was a red bird skeleton; said bird skeleton was a logo for an energy drink that usually sponsors Taylor in dance competitions. Almost all Taylor's clothes had the logo printed on it somewhere in some sort of neon color. Maggie had been in need of a sponsor and, before the drink company interviewed her, Taylor gave her the hoodie for a good impression.

Taylor smiled at the memory. Pulling the hoodie on, she donned her only pair of specially-made red Parkour shoes and her discarded mask from the suitcase in her closet. Finally, Taylor threw her knapsack onto her back.

She left the hood down while she left the campus. After she was a few blocks away from the campus, she pulled up her hood after securing her hair into a loose bun. The mask laid in her hoodie's front pocket.

The city streets were ridiculously crowded and people ran into each other as they all rushed for busses, taxies, and subway stations in hopes of getting home quickly. She wasn't really sure why but none of the people, despite how rude they were being, could make Taylor angry, which was odd because Taylor had never been a patient person. Actually, she'd always been a bit moody: always depressed, angry, or complaining about something: but that particular day, her inner turmoil vanished. It seemed totally insignificant.

For one of the first times in Taylor's life, she realized, she was more concerned with someone else rather than herself or her own problems. She was acting for Maggie.

Her thoughts pondered the phenomenon for some time as she wandered the slowly de-crowding city. The puddles from Friday night had vanished from the streets and, with any luck, the rooftops as well. Not that she planned on using them if she didn't have to. After Thursday night's scrape on her ribs and Friday night's brutal beating, Taylor was in no shape to be doing any strenuous activity for at least a few days. She would be of no aid to anyone.

Around seven thirty, she arrived at one of the entrances to Central Park; Taylor realized then that she had no idea where in Central Park Maggie had been found. _Stupid_. The only thing to do was look around for the tell-tale yellow police tape. A glance around revealed an empty street and Taylor placed her mask on her bruised face, effectively becoming Claw. Pulling the hood closer to her face, Claw set about determining the most likely crime scene: hidden away somewhere. In her peripherals, she noticed a spotlight in the sky: The Bat Signal.

It wasn't until roughly nine-ten that she spotted the scene.

Walking towards it, Claw walked up the tape that surrounded a twenty-foot radius around a park bench. A white chalk outline remained on the bench and partly the ground where Maggie had no doubt been found. There was blood smeared across the trail and the grass around it.

Allowing herself only a momentary pause, Claw took a shaky breath and approached the bench.

"You're late."

Startled, Claw twirled around to the voice of Barbra; Batman's sidekick stood only feet away from where Claw had been standing before she'd leaped away in fright in full armor.

Barbra raised an eyebrow behind her mask, "No costume?"

"Too many blood stains, Barb," Claw simpered. It was weird to think of Barbra being in that armor. Perhaps Claw would have been angry or jealous before, seeing as her school yard rival was now also the student of her idol, but it just seemed trivial. Oddly, Taylor found herself respecting and, dare she admit, dependent on Barbra.

The other girl only nodded, observing the crime scene before stating, "Use code names when we're on call."

Claw nodded and turned herself, still shaky, to the bench again.

"It's a good thing, though," Batgirl said to Claw's confusion. Elaborating, Batgirl continued, "that your other costume's dirty. It was much harder to see you coming."

An 'ah' of agreement escaped Claw's mouth. She didn't comment on it though; Taylor was actually pretty fond of that costume: it reminded her of her little sister. Ignoring her creeping angst, Claw spoke, "Do you know what happened?"

Batgirl shook her head, "Batman's seen the case file but he didn't say anything about it."

Walking around the blood stains, Claw observed an anomaly with the ground near the chalk outline of a hand that probably hung from the bench. There was something white tangled beneath the grass, not easily missed.

Batgirl spoke up, "It looks like the body was placed sitting upright on the bench. Why bother, though?"

"What do you mean?" Claw asked as she looked at the white thing in her hand. The part which had been touching the blood stained ground was inescapably bloody.

Glancing at Claw, Batgirl explained, "Why bother sitting her up straight? I mean, if the blood pattern is any clue she probably fell over initially, but he moved her so she sat up. Why?"

"I found a piece of white bread. Probably ripped off from a full slice. Regular store-bought loaf, I'd guess." Claw said.

Batgirl frowned behind her mask, not that Claw could tell, but it was apparent in her voice. "That could have come from anywhere; people throw bread to the pigeons all the time."

"I'm not so sure," Claw bit her lower lip, "If it had been there before Maggie was here, it would be covered in blood, but this piece only has blood on the side that was touching the ground."

"So someone put it there after the fact."

"Exactly."

"This doesn't answer 'why,'" Batgirl countered, "They posed her and then threw a bread piece at her?"

Claw frowned, not wanting to look at the bench any longer, and moved back toward the other female vigilante. "There was probably more bread but, by the looks of all the bird poop around here, it didn't last long."

Batgirl and Claw's eyes, or rather white slits and hollow sockets, met and they knew their next step. They glanced up to the sky to the still lit bat-signal.

"We need to see that file."

They exited on the opposite side of the park Claw had entered and Batgirl held out an arm to Claw, signaling her to pause.

"What?" Claw rose an ungroomed eyebrow at Batgirl.

The Batman's sidekick frowned, Claw could only tell by the slight shift in her mask. "Are you okay?" She asked.

Confused, Claw responded bluntly, "My best friend in dead. No, I'm not _okay_. I want to find the guy who did it and-"

"Maybe you should let me and Batman handle this. You're too close to this case."

Frowning as understanding hit her, Claw rebutted, "If he didn't want me out helping people he would have tried to stop me before now-"

"The _only_ reason he hasn't stopped you is because you never took more than three guys at a time," Batgirl interrupted yet again, provoking Claw's hair-trigger temper. Batgirl continued, yelling at the other girl, "You've only been fighting small time thugs and he thought you knew what you could handle! He thought you'd leave the big fish to him and take care of some of the minor distractions!"

Claw was glaring at her by this point, but Batgirl continued her rant, as if she'd been trying to get Claw to realize this on her own. Was that why Batgirl had let Claw come see the crime scene? To scare her off the case?

"At least until Friday," Batgirl huffed in frustration. Claw frowned in confusion, her anger abating ever so slightly to curiosity. Friday had been when she fought the man with the half orange and half black mask.

"What do you mean?" Claw growled with more anger than she intended.

Making her way into a sprint across the street, Batgirl scoffed, "You didn't notice? Do you have _any idea_ who that guy was?"

A thought struck Claw as she chased after the girl, "Did he kill Maggie?"

"I doubt it," Batgirl clicked her tongue. Grabbing Claw around the waist, she shot her grapple gun at the closest rooftop and they soared towards it. When they landed on the roof, Batgirl continued.

"That guy was _Slade Wilson._ As in the mercenary-turned-criminal Slade Wilson; ringing any bells?"

Having no time to marvel at the utter coolness of the grapple gun, Claw shrugged, "No, but that was a robot not some ex-mercenary."

"It was one of his Slade-bots."

"Slade-bots?" There were more of those things?

"Yeah, they're robotic copies of him. He usually uses them as distractions. The point is: Slade is bad news," Barbra said seriously, concern filling her voice, "Batman and I were watching your fight; Slade was going easy on you. He was testing you-"

Snorting in indignation, Claw took her own opportunity to interrupt, as she hefted herself onto the next rooftop, "And it took you that long to help?"

"We were chasing him from the bank he'd just robbed when you popped out of nowhere-an impressive feat with a costume like that." Batgirl called back as she raced off.

Claw took off running in the direction of the bat signal and Batgirl. Reaching the edge of the roof, she aimed for the next rooftop. It was about six feet away, but she made the jump with practiced ease. Quickly, Claw noted the pain in her shins, ankles, and knees. The muscles in her thighs weren't very happy either, but it wasn't crippling. Hopefully, if her encounter was successful, she could head back to her dorm afterwards and rest.

The vigilantes kept up their sprinting and jumping for several minutes before they came to a building which was taller than the one they were jumping from. Too late to stop her leap, Claw snatched the closest eleventh story window pane of the taller building and pulled herself hard enough to propel her body up so that she could snatch the next window pane. Two more similar maneuvers later, Claw was on the rooftops again. Batgirl was already on the next building, having used her grapple gun.

The GCPD was only two rooftops away, but Claw remembered that particular rooftop from a few months previous. And she remembered it well. Preparing herself for the drop, she recalled the building that stood between the one she was on and the GCPD was about four stories below.

Sprinting, Claw reached the edge of the rooftop and used every bit of strength left in her legs to jump the huge gap. Her arms flailed a little and she shouted curses, but she kept her attention on the closely approaching rooftop. Claw positioned her legs into an angle less than 90 degrees but more than 45 degrees as she landed leaning forward. As she hoped, inertia forced Claw's body to fly into a summersault. Despite the success of the maneuver, she felt a twinge in her ankle that surely signified a sprain.

Hissing in response to the new pain, Claw placed her weight on her good ankle and shook out her bad one. It hurt bad enough to elect more curses from the red head's mouth, but after a moment Claw ignored the leftover pain and jogged to the form of Batgirl.

"You're really slow." Batgirl teased.

"Shut up, Bat-face."

Batgirl grew very serious, "Look, I meant what I said. It looked like Slade was testing you. And Batman thinks you need to lay low. If Slade's taking an interest in you, you need to be less interesting."

"Why does the bat care?" Claw was feeling uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation. This Slade guy had scared her, even if it was only a robot; the way he was able to predict her moves even before even Claw knew what she was doing was eerie. From that thought, she decided to take up her martial art classes again.

Batgirl's voice grew softer and Claw could hear a smile, "Because you remind him of himself."

Before Claw could respond, Batgirl leapt off the building's ledge and glided down to the GCPD rooftop.

A feeling of warmth filled Taylor's stomach: she reminded Batman of himself? That was kind of awesome.

Feeling special, Claw scaled the building down a few floors before kicking off the wall and landing next to Batgirl noisily. This gained the attention of Barbra's father, Commissioner Gordon, who turned around.

Gordon seemed confused, probably because he was expecting Batman. Or maybe, Claw's more logical side reasoned, he was confused as to why she was with Batgirl.

"Took you long enough. Where's Batman?" Gordon directed his question at Batgirl.

She responded, modifying her voice with a device built into her mask, "We need to ask you a favor, Commissioner."

The change in Batgirl's voice startled Claw, but she did her best not to show it by disguising her shock as bored curiosity, or at least that's how it came out.

Gordon's eyes shifted to Claw, who only then realized that her hood had fallen down, allowing her hair, which had fallen out of a bun and into a loose ponytail, to spill out. Well, crap, came a bitter thought from Taylor. A thought of changing hair colors flashed across her mind.

Gordon's eyes tried to lock with her own, but her mask served it's purpose and her white slits stared back at the police commissioner.

Batgirl gestured to her red-haired friend, "Commissioner, this is Claw."

"A new sidekick?"

"Actually, no," Claw hesitated to say, unsure what Gordon needed to know.

"We have a favor to ask," Batgirl repeated, glancing at her college rival.

Commissioner Gordon pulled himself back to topic, "What kind of favor?"

Speaking quickly, Claw injected herself into the conversation, "I need to see the file on…a girl that was found murdered in Central Park a few days ago."

Raising an eyebrow, Gordon almost sighed, "The Brown case? The MCU is still following a few leads-"

"I'll need everything you have on the case…please?" Claw tried to be patient with the man.

Gordon opened his mouth to speak, but Batgirl cut him off, "Batman has me looking into most of the cases unrelated to the Joker's escape. He's focusing on getting him back behind bars so I'm responsible for everything else."

Claw hadn't heard anything about the Joker escaping, but if it got her the information she wanted…

The commissioner, grey haired but still somehow intimidating, huffed and after a moment's hesitation spoke, "I'll get you the file if you can tell Batman I have an update on The Joker. He'll want to get it from me."

"Sure thing, Commissioner," Batgirl assured. Reaching up to her mask, around her right ear she spoke to no one.

"Batman," she called, then after a moment spoke again, "The Commissioner needs to speak with you about the Joker case. It's urgent." She waited another moment before addressing Gordon as her hand fell back to her side.

"He's on his way."

Gordon nodded, "Wait here." He turned around and walked back into the GCPD roof access.

"So," Claw said after a minute or so of awkward silence, "Joker's out?"

A heavy sigh escaped Batgirl's modified voice, "Unfortunately, yes. Saturday night Batman found an imposter in Joker's cell."

Frowning, Claw mused, "Doesn't he usually start up mayhem as soon as he's out on the streets? The Joker, I mean."

"Usually."

The abrupt answer left larger implications to Claw's imagination. "He's planning something big, isn't he?"

"I don't know," Batgirl admitted, "That's probably why Batman's left me to deal with everything else. Joker's been laying low."

"Weird." After a pause, Claw inquired, "Should we do something?"

Batgirl responded as the roof access opened again, "One case at a time, Claw."

Barbra's father was silent as he walked over to the two, file in hand. Claw practically snatched the file from his hands before he'd finished holding it out for her. With a large amount of self control, she placed the file in her knapsack instead of opening it immediately.

"I'll be needing that back, you know," Gordon gruffed with an eyebrow raise behind his square spectacles.

With a nod, Claw agreed to have the file back in a few days. At the sound of someone at the stairs, he turned away to see Detective Bullock lumbering towards him; a glance back to the vigilantes proved what he already knew: they were already gone.

\~~~~~/

**No fight scenes here but in the next chapter we'll get a look into Maggie's case file and the Batman-Joker storyline will progress. First review to guess the culprit behind Maggie's death gets a chapter dedication! I've put some obvious clues in here. :)**


	6. Tuesday Morning: Water of the Womb

**Sorry for the wait! College and all that. Semester is over for the summer though! Huzzah!**

**Orange and Black  
>Chapter Six<strong>

_"__Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that__  
>something else is more important than fear."<br>― __Meg Cabot_

"Where do you get all these toys?" Claw asked in awe, gesturing to Batgirl's grapnel hook. Mysteriously vanishing from the commissioner's sight mid-conversation felt just as awesome as it sounded, if not more.

Standing in an epic pose atop one of the gargoyles on the top of Taylor's favorite Catholic church that stood out among the tall corporate buildings in the diamond district, Batgirl chuckled a bit, "I'm not the person to ask."

An awkward silence passed between them. After resting on the gargoyles and listening for trouble for a good ten minutes, Batgirl spoke, "I'm on it."

Before Claw could become confused, she remembered the ear piece. She had a second to wonder if it was Batman on the other side of the communication or some sort of information broker before Batgirl spoke again, this time to her fellow redheaded vigilante. "Can I get that file from you later tonight?"

Nodding her head, Claw stood (in what she hoped was a cool pose) atop the north facing gargoyle, hair blowing in the wind. "Sure. It's Tuesday, so I'll get off around five. We can work on the paper then focus on the case."

"So it's a paper now?" Her friend asked teasingly, dropping her fierce Batgirl façade for a moment.

"Forgive me if I don't want to spend any more time on this project than I have too," Claw snapped, then added, "No offense," in an attempt at some civility. An awkward silence passed.

The sidekick sighed, "Meet me on the roof of the hotel on the corner of 39th and Russo. Ten o'clock; don't be late."

Before Claw could confirm, Batgirl turned away and leapt off of the gargoyle. Cape pulled tight around her as she dived a couple floors before snapping her cape out like leathery wings. With a painful looking jerk, her fall slowed into a graceful glide. A quick use of her grapple and Batgirl flew in the direction of Sionis Industries corporate building and out of Claw's sight.

Claw climbed onto the head of a gargoyle adjacent to the one Batgirl had stood upon moments ago and closed her eyes. Gotham was peaceful at 3:34 am that Tuesday morning. Hair billowing behind her, Claw breathed deeply as she took in the night time. The sound of the wind in her ears blocked out anything else that could have been happening below beyond the occasional car horn. The air was cool and smelt of old stone dust and Windex – a bit of a mood killer but, really, who was she to complain when the corporate building's windows looked as clean as they did. When she opened her eyes, Claw took a deep gulp of oxygen and looked to the heavens. The city lights and bloated clouds blocked out most of whatever stars would still be out this time of night.

As she leaned forward, she allowed her straightened torso to lead and her limbs bowed out behind her. Her feet left the gargoyle and she was in freefall.

\~~~~~~/

Around 5 am, later than she had ever dared to stay out on a school night, Claw was standing on the roof of a four story apartment building that skirted the edge of an inner city field. The field was relatively small but large enough to contain a neighborhood garden and a beat up playground. Her figure appeared only as a silhouette to any of the thugs down below; if they were looking up, that is.

Seven goons: all potentially armed. They weren't exchanging drugs, money, or anything else remotely illegal. Actually, Claw had no idea what they were doing, but she knew one of them by reputation and the other much more personally.

Roman Sionis and Jonathan Crane.

That is, Crane as in her Psychology professor. His tall lanky frame was unmistakable amongst the cabled arms of Sionis's thugs. And yes, she did mean Roman Sionis as in the Black Mask.

In the movie _Mean Girls_, one girl says "…[seeing teachers outside of school is] like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs" but for Taylor, seeing her uppity self-important college professor making what looked like a shady deal with one of the biggest crime syndicates in the city, it was more like seeing a goose snort cocaine.

Their voices were loud but not quite coherent to the vigilante's ears while their tense and angry body language spoke volumes about their relationship. Taking the hired guns down in the middle of a playground wouldn't be a breeze and damn near impossible if Sionis and Crane were armed as well. From where Claw was spying, it was impossible to tell.

Claw would consider herself daring and would normally jump into a five-on-one brawl without a second thought, but _normally_ her opponents weren't armed with anything worse than a carbon fiber piece of junk gun made in China or a junk-drawer blade. These guys had what looked like semi-automatic rifles.

She'd never been anything close to a gun expert but she'd seen enough movies to know those machines meant business – murderous business at that. Not to mention that dispite her nocturnal activities, Claw wasn't a moron? With her injuries still on the mend, it wasn't likely that she would have been able to dodge any quick attacks thrown her way.

Yes, Claw was daring and even foolish at times but certainly never stupid.

Plus, she decided, seeing as they weren't doing anything illegal she couldn't really do anything about it in the first place. The smart thing to do would be to leave and send note to Batgirl who could in turn tell Batdude. The Black Mask wasn't someone to take lightly what with his sociopathic nature and legendary temper.

Then again, most of her focus was on finding a logical reason behind her psychology professor having a shady discussion with a crime lord at an inner-city playground.

She knew Crane was creepy but seeing him near a playground was mildly disturbing. He hated children with a burning passion. Claw was sure he had never actually been one but had simply begun existing around age thirty. Shaking her head a little, she knew there was no closer spot for her to hide and spy as the men were positioned in the middle of the field.

Her only options were to A: confront the group and hope they didn't shoot her – unlikely – or B: leave it to the big man – undesirable. Weighing her options, Claw hesitated even though she already knew what her answer would be.

B it is, she thought with a disappointed sigh. Something about this made her think about what Batgirl had said about knowing her limits. A scowl marred her bruised face before she disappeared.

\~~~~~~/

"And where'd you get all this money again?" Arty asked the scruffy elder gent from the previous chapters suspiciously. Arty had never bothered to learn the man's name but had seen him frequenting the ally by his apartment a few years back and since then, the degenerate just wouldn't leave him alone.

So being the smart salesman he was Arty had prompted the gutter-lurker with a pretty sweet deal only to be turned down quickly and rudely. And now, that same pathetic man was now begging for a second chance at that deal much to Arty's annoyance.

"Come on, Arty, please!" He pleaded, "I got the money now, Arty. Thirty for three, right? Thirty for three – that's what you said!"

Arty sneared, "What changed your mind anyway?"

"I have the money now, Arty," he insisted earnestly. The homeless man was an avid smoker at some point in his life, if his voice was anything to go by: it sounded like a heavy tire rolling over uneven gravel.

Glancing at his watch, Arty knew he had to get this guy out of here and soon, he had another customer to attend to. "All right, all right."

They made the exchange and the homeless man thanked Arty profusely and, after wishing him a good night, the other man left. Arty stood alone in a long dead carnival at the bluffs of Sullivan Island outside the city; his eyes glanced over the mildly polluted harbor water and to the filthy cityscape of downtown Gotham.

Arthur "Arty" Riot had always been a man of simplicity; simple thoughts and even simpler deals. Arty was a businessman, despite what his pompous brother might have thought or said, and he was _smart_. Selling as cheaply as he did had made him one of the most successful dealers in the city only second to organized crime syndicates.

Arty made his success because his dealings were cheap but he was rarely generous – excepting only his dear niece.

His niece, Taylor, was a bit of a moocher as a child but the older she grew and the more independent and rebellious she became, the more Arty had liked her. Denying her father's considerable wealth, she had insisted on supporting herself when she moved out to Gotham. Taylor had been in school for just about four years working on a fancy-shmancy college degree; according to her it was a difficult program to get into, more so to finish. Stubborn like her mother, Taylor had flat out refused to even consider inheriting her father's empire and instead pursued her fantastical dream.

She was slick too, that girl. "I'm going to be even smarter than you, Uncle Art," she'd say. Arty's thoughtful frown morphed into a fond smirk as he stared at the letter she had sent him in thanks for her new alarm clock and the repairs to her dorm wall that he'd insisted on paying for. At the time it had seemed incredibly important.

Seeing a figure take shape to his right, Arty crushed the paper in his hand and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. "Ah! There you are," he greeted the eccentric visitor.

Arty was excited to finally sell this old place; a carnival he'd bought for the land but he'd never been able to find anyone willing to take the old rusted contraptions off his hands. It wasn't worth the cost to him anymore; if Arty was anything, he was good with his finances. "Have you had a chance to inspect the property?"

The visitor clicked his tongue and turned to gesture around the park in exaggeration, "Well, it's _garish_, _ugly_, and _derelicts_ have used it for a toilet."

Uh oh, Arty held his breath.

"The rides are dilapidated to the point of being _lethal_, and could easily _maim_ or _kill_ innocent _children_," the pale man said in distaste.

Not really sure what to say, Arty grimaced, "Oh… So you don't like it?"

"Don't like it? I'm _crazy_ for it," Mr. White's lips pulled back in a grin with a cackle. His suit was unmistakable and covered with his matching trench coat, both dyed dark purple. The green tie, darker than his slime green hair, poked out of his coat. His hair was slicked into a messy pompadour that lengthened his already long face. His nose looked like it might have been broken one time to many and his chalky completion looked like kernelled milk that starkly contrasted to his big ugly green eyes and yellow teeth. After making a show of walking as if he were complete fool, the foolishly dressed man led the way through the carnival with absolute delight.

"You…?" Arty released his baited breath with a wash of relief. "You really want to buy it? And the price I mentioned isn't too steep…?"

Pausing to childishly imitate the strong man poster, arms up in a pitiful flex White assured, "Too _steep_? My dear _sir_, as I look at it I'm making a _killing_…"

It was when White noticed a poster of the Fat Lady that he trailed off and added in a mutter, "…and anyway, money isn't really a problem. Not these days."

They walked on in silence and Arty was in a state of pure euphoria. For the first time in years, he was going to be living large; in all honesty, he'd really overcharged the poor sucker. Mr. White was obviously a man of means Arty had justified and consequently had not felt so bad about the whole ordeal. Arthur Riot was a businessman and business often favored one side over the other.

Reaching the front of the park, Arty, in his giddy mindset, climbed onto a rocking pink elephant. "Y'know, I'm positive you won't regret this purchase. The place isn't that dilapidated. Some of these rides are pretty sturdy. Really this could be one hell of a carnival."

"Oh, you're _so_ right," White interrupted patronizingly, "Thanks to your smooth salesmanship and your silver tongue you've completely _sold_ me on this place. Let's _shake_ on it."

The high was short lived as the chalk pale Mr. White snatched up his hand and, catching a glint of silver in White's hand Arty felt the needle pierce his palm with a pinch. His hand clenched inward and when he tried to cry out, he found his body unresponsive. He felt like he was shriveling. Like a raisin.

"Naturally, I won't be _paying_ you anything. My colleagues _persuaded_ your partner to sign the necessary documents _just_ _over_ an hour ago. The property's mine _already_."

White giggled at the seller, whose name he had never bothered to learn, and waved his hand to reveal the needle attached to his joy buzzer. He haphazardly grabbed the buzzer's strap and threw it off; wouldn't want to go around poisoning people by accident, would he. "You're happy with that, I take it? I can see that you are. I'm _so_ glad. You know, when you see the improvements I have planned for this place, I guarantee _you'll_ _be_ _speechless_! And incidentally, that's a _lifetime_ guarantee."

After he snorted in delight, White sighed at the lack of response, "Well, I really _must_ dash. There's equipment to acquire, plus workers who'll need to suit the general _tone_ of the establishment and then, of course, I've yet to secure my _main_ _attraction_."

White pulled his purple hat to cover his face. "Do feel free to stick around."

The man's wiry figure faded into the distance. Arty hadn't moved. His form sat ridged atop the slightly rocking pink elephant, which groaned against the rusted spring.

Arty's cheekbones puffy with a Cheshire grin, his teeth were cracking under the pressure of his clenched jaw and blood trailed from behind his teeth and over his lower lip. His teeth were tucked into a set of chapped and blood stained lips that ripped back from his face into a stretched grin. His eyelids pealed open so wide his eyes could have dropped right out of the sockets. Every age line that could have ever been, stretched across his features and moisture pooled inside them.

Arthur Riot was dead. In life he had always been a man of simplicity; now he was simply dead.

\~~~~~~/

Rain poured down by the buckets from the grey shadowed heavens above her. The sun would have been shining if not for the thick umbrella of rain filled clouds soaking her and her equipment, now situated inside her dripping knapsack. This left her barefoot and dressed in her skinny jeans and black sports bra. It was 6am and she was looking forward to sleeping a few hours before her work shift at noon.

Taylor knew she was supposed to go to her foreign language class from eight to nine thirty, but her professor never took attendance and rarely strayed from the text book. She'd be fine skipping her only class for the day.

Stringy red hear strapped to her face in thick tendrils, darkened by the weighty water that impeded her vision and hearing. The ugly brown puddles she walked through were alive, celebrating the arrival of new rain droplets to their gathering, and Taylor didn't bother trying to walk around them. Arriving at a break in the oak canopy that had covered her steps along the path through the woods – a shortcut to her residence hall – Taylor paused and tilted her head up to the rain in silence.

Her natural reaction was to close her eyes but rebellion was usually her preference over self-preservation. Taylor forced her light brown eyes to open like slits and she stared at the rolls of black and grey towering over her head like an omen. A minuet smile graced her face and exposed her painstakingly white teeth through her chapped pink lips, welcoming the rain to cleanse her – begging for it even.

Water trailed across her face in crisscrosses and complex patterns smoothing the stress from her marred features, the cold liquid meeting the warm bruises and scratches on her face in full force. An exhale of a laugh burst from her lips and Taylor wasn't quite sure what came over her in that moment but she felt something momentous lift from her.

It was short lived however, when suddenly the original Star Trek theme song blared into her once relaxed ears. After a startled jump and a following scowl, the red head viciously stuffed her arm into her knapsack and reached around for her phone, that old figurative weight pressing down on her shoulders once again.

At last, her calloused fingers wrapped around the smooth glass of the device and she yanked it from its hiding place. Glancing at the caller ID, Taylor felt her mood sour. Her bright eyes hardened and her grip tightened. _Patrick Riot_, it read.

With as much attitude as she could muster, Taylor answered with a huff, "What?"

_"Taylor."_ She wasn't surprised to hear her father's smooth baritone.

"Dad," Taylor said with a clipped tone, having nothing else to respond with.

Her father sounded just as eager to speak with her as Taylor felt. After an awkward pause, he spoke hesitantly, _"How are you?"_

Realizing her moment of bliss had passed, Taylor continued her trek through the woods towards her dorm. Her feet squished dirt and mud in between her toes, making her grimace. "Great. What do you want?"

It came out more venomously than she intended; she and her father hadn't gotten along for many years and they had long since said and done unforgivable things to the other.

_"I don't appreciate your tone, Taylor,"_ he growled like he would to a disobedient toddler.

Taylor scoffed, "Well I don't appreciate your call, _Patrick_. What do you want?" She was feeling more than bitter at this point, something more akin to irritation. Taylor wasn't scared of her father anymore and she wanted to make that clear.

Her father tisked and bit back, _"Well I was trying to be nice and give you the news gently but _fine_. If you insist, I'll get straight to the point."_

"What?" Taylor spat after a moment of tense silence. Immediately, he released an exhausted sigh. For a second, she felt a little guilty for her attitude but that feeling didn't last long. Before she could prompt him, he rushed to speak.

_"You're mother's dead. I signed the paperwork this morning."_

Taylor lost her footing for a moment and nearly dropped her phone in an unforgiving puddle. When she regained her balance, her lips trembled with words she couldn't form properly. Her voice came out in mousy calm surprise, "What?"

_"Your mother… Please don't make me say it again,"_ he choked over his words. There was a second where she assumed he attempted to gain control over himself before he spoke again. _"The funeral's on Saturday… It doesn't matter what's happened between you and me, right now. I think your mother would want you there."_

The redhead shuddered a controlling breath and the muscles in her neck tightened, "I can be there."

Her father hummed in somber approval, _"Can you afford a plane ticket?"_

"I don't know." Taylor answered honestly, musing bitterly about their change in attitude towards each other. Her mother had always been the middle man, the compromiser. Losing Emily started the fighting but when her mother had fallen into a coma, Patrick and Taylor's relationship had been like rubbing sandpaper against raw skin. Neither of them was in shock at the loss of her mother, she knew they had been preparing themselves for close to three years. Was it selfish of her to wish it could have been later – when her life wasn't so crazy?

_"I'll forward you the cash."_

Fate had been overly cruel to Taylor recently. She hadn't expected or wanted to receive this news right now, not with everything else that had been happening the past… what was it? Five days? She nearly cursed. It had felt like several sleepless months.

Perhaps she should think about making a list of all the people dying around her; at this rate, there would be too many to remember by next week.

_"It should be in your account by Monday. Charge the ticket on your card and use my money to pay the interest."_

Picking up her pace as the dorm came into view, Taylor nodded. Quickly realizing that he couldn't see her, she spoke, "Okay."

A few moments of awkward silence passed before they both rushed each other off the phone with made-up excuses. Taylor couldn't really think straight and she felt incredibly uncomfortable; she felt like the bad guy in the conversation.

Unable to really make sense of or shake off the feeling, Taylor entered Elliot Hall completely missing the greeting from the friendly security woman behind the main counter. Taylor paced straight into the conveniently arriving elevator.

"Taylor, I've been meaning to speak with you," came a started greeting from Elliot Hall's resident coordinator (RC), who happened to be coming out of that elevator. Taylor cursed her luck.

The RC was a relaxed but apathetic graduate student, with a thin face and a pixie-like lean five foot frame making Taylor feel incredibly tall despite her rather average height. The RC's left bicep was covered in a sporadic half sleeve tattoo; she had a small nose ring, pierced eyebrow, thick rimmed glasses, and long silky black hair.

Taylor wasn't really in the mood for a heart to heart. Really she just wanted to read Maggie's case file and catch some much needed sleep.

"Hello, Tink," Taylor greeted reluctantly, using a nickname the hall's RAs had fashioned for her. The residents picked up on it quickly and soon enough had forgotten Tink's real name. Did she even have one? Taylor didn't know, or care.

"I've been meaning to talk to you," Tink reported, her expression neutral. Tink was finishing her masters in Psychology and yet somehow found time to be a resident coordinator. Taylor couldn't handle an undergraduate degree and a "nightlife"; she couldn't even imagine Tink's workload.

Gritting her teeth and refocusing, Taylor sighed, "I don't want to be rude; it's just that I've had a long week or two and an even longer night. All I want to do climb into bed until work."

"I won't be long," Tink's calculating eyes scanned over Taylor's bruised face. The elevator doors closed and they were alone. Taylor hoped the RC wouldn't ask; she had been suspicious of Taylor's late night escapades since the first time Taylor came back with bruises. Tink pursed her lips into a frown when her eyes landed on Taylor's side. The redhead had to repress a grimace at her carelessness to walk around shirtless with that gash in her side.

Tink continued stiffly, "You should know Maggie's parents came by to pick up her stuff. And also…," she checked her notebook, "that the university will be offering it's condolences soon if you haven't gotten the letter yet."

Taylor frowned, "I haven't gotten any letter."

Tink shifted her head up in acknowledgement without breaking eye contact. "University Policy states that in the event that a resident…passes," she tested, measuring Taylor with her eyes, "their roommate gets a housing refund for the semester and 'A's in all of their classes."

Never having heard that information before, Taylor wasn't sure what to say. A nasty feeling settled in her stomach and a horrible taste touched her tongue. "Oh."

The elevator pinged and s the doors opened, Tink let some air gust from her lips before speaking. "It's okay to be upset, Taylor, but whatever you were out doing last night that did this to you-," she gestured at Taylor's most obvious wounds, "-is not the healthy way to deal with it."

Pursing her lips, Taylor's tongue swiped across her teeth. "Okay, you know," came Taylor's testy retort, "It's not any of your business, _Tink_."

Calm as ever, the olive skinned Tink remarked, "I'm only trying to help. And fighting, or whatever it is you're doing-"

"You don't know a _damn_ _thing_!" Taylor exploded. The elevator doors began to close and she roughly shoved her arm against the metal barrier, forcing it open again. Feeling offensive and hoping to make Tink feel bad about what she said, Taylor growled out, "I just got a call that said my mom just died! So _back_ _off_!"

Tink paused at that, taken aback. She made to speak but Taylor wasn't done. "I'm handling it the best way I know how, okay!? First Barbra and now you? I could hit you right now! And I don't need you telling me how to do anything because you have no idea!"

Realizing that not everything she was saying was making a lot of sense Taylor huffed and stormed out of the elevator, leaving a stunned Tink in her dust.

\~~~~~~/

_Joker. Classification: Delta 0 – 2. Print File. Enlargement: All Screens._

Cloaked in shadow, the only illumination on Batman's figure was from the large screens of the bat-computer, all of which sported an image or file detailing the Joker. The vigilante's fist clenched around a playing card: the joker. Wild card.

_Fnap!_ He snapped the card onto the console, the skin of his knuckles pulled tight over the joint beneath the gloves. His lip twitched in irritation as he read Joker's file, despite having already memorized it after years of repetitively updating and reviewing – hoping that someday, everything would click and all his questions would be answered.

_Joker  
>Real Name: Unknown.<br>Age: Unknown.  
>Hair Color: Green.<br>Eye Color: Green.  
>Affiliations: Harley Quinn. Mister Hammer. Ra's Al Ghul.<br>Abilities: High intelligence. Skilled chemist. Experience in hand-to-hand combat.  
>Occupation: Criminal.<br>Location: Unknown. (Previously Arkham Asylum.)_

Batman noticed a glare of light shown on the main screen, reflecting off of the glass tubes containing several costumes, only twenty feet behind him. He turned to look at the tubes. The first empty, soon to be filled with the armor he currently wore. The second clear tube contained Nightwing's old armor from before he left for Blüdhaven, back when their relationship had been less strained, less painful.

The third held Batgirl's new costume. Vastly different from its original design, but Barbra had insisted on the full face mask. It was practical now that Batgirl needed to interact with the Commissioner much more than before. A domino mask only hid so much and imagine Gordon's surprise if they hadn't thought of the voice modifier. The dark knight felt a surge of pride well up in his chest. Barbra had matured so much in the few years they had worked together. Her detective skills and combat proficiency rivaled Dick's own, back when he was still Robin. She had great potential.

The fourth tube gave Batman great pause, anxiety and guilt snatching his gut. Robin's armor. Jason Todd: his great failure. Because of his failure to capture the Joker during their mission in Serajevo opting to instead pursue Ra's Al Ghul – who had been planning on toppling the European economy – Jason went after the clown by himself.

And now Jason was dead.

Ripping the cowl off, Bruce dragged his fingers through his sweaty scalp. He had never forgiven himself for that. If only he had been faster. Smarter. Jason wouldn't have died. Bruce had failed and maybe it was worse that Batman had failed too.

"Master Bruce?"

Startled, Bruce glanced at his friend, Alfred Pennyworth. The butler, dressed in his usual clean pressed uniform and clean shaven, sat a tray of refreshments on the computer's console. His voice was smooth, aged, and proper, "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Bruce looked down at the man who had raised him – he was significantly shorter and slighter. Alfred had picked up a bit of pudge in his older age. "No. That's all, Alfred."

Alfred observed Bruce in that moment. The rare moments where he was neither Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, nor Batman, hardened vigilante, were the moments where Bruce was what Alfred thought was his real self. This investigative disciplined man with a trust fund and anger issues was the real Bruce; at least that's what Alfred thought.

With a heavy sigh, Bruce's attention uselessly returned to the monitor. "I've been trying to figure out what he intends to _do_. It's almost _impossible_!"

Alfred pursed his lips, gently picking up the discarded cowl and cape as Bruce rambled on. "I don't _know_ him, Alfred. All these _years_ and I don't know who _he_ is anymore than he knows who _I_ am."

Bruce raged childlike as he slammed his hands down on the console, "How can two people _hate_ so much without _knowing_ each other?"

A sigh escaped the posh British nose and Alfred answered honestly, "I don't know, sir. I don't know."


End file.
